


Bookends

by rosewindow



Series: OT3 'Verse [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewindow/pseuds/rosewindow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Scott is quiet as he lets himself into the Stilinski house. He’s not supposed to be here; Mr. Stilinski has imposed a 'no sexual partners in the house without adult supervision' rule, but today is different."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bookends

**Author's Note:**

> Some OT3 with added Stilinski-feels. The title comes from the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name. This follows after “They” in my OT3-verse, but can stand alone.

Scott is quiet as he lets himself into the Stilinski house. The Sheriff’s cruiser has just pulled away, but he doesn’t want to wake Stiles.

He’s not supposed to be here; Mr. Stilinski has imposed a “no sexual partners in the house without adult supervision” rule, but today is different.

He’s not so good at pancakes - those are Stiles’s specialty - but he makes a mean omelette, and he’s smuggled in real bacon since Stiles only lets his dad buy the turkey kind. He’s got peppers and onions sauteeing, and bacon cooking, when Stiles comes down.

“You know if my dad catches you, we’re both dead, right?”

“He already left for work. And I brought extra bacon to bribe him with, just in case.”

Stiles hops up on the counter and swings his legs as Scott cooks. Scott knows they’re both trying not to remember who taught him how to cook in this same kitchen. Stiles eventually moves to make some toast, and they eat standing up, leaning against the counters.

They have to do dishes. “Hiding the evidence,” Scott laughs as he dries the plates and puts them away.

“Right,” he says, pulling Stiles into the living room. “I brought The Core, Blazing Saddles, and Inglorious Basterds. What are we feeling?”

Stiles picks The Core, and they curl up together on the couch. Stiles stays awake long enough to make fun of the flying fish, and Scott says, “Why do we keep watching this movie? It’s so stupid.”

“The fish makes it worthwhile,” Stiles mumbles, before he’s out like a light, his head pillowed on Scott’s lap.

Scott lets the movie run, but he’s not really paying attention. His hand traces idle patterns through the fuzz on Stiles’s head as he remembers when they bought the movie.

They’d been trying to rent it, and the clerk was eyeing Stiles and him suspiciously. So Mrs. Stilinski had taken them outside to entertain them with the fairy tales they both loved, but insisted they were too old for. His mom had come out a few minutes later with the movie in one hand and an angry expression on her face, ranting about the incompetence of adult males.

Scott remembers curling up with Stiles on this same couch, under this same blanket, and watching the film while their mothers talked in the kitchen. During a quiet moment, he realized that his mom was crying. Stiles realized it too and threw an arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he had muttered. “You can share my dad.”

A year and a half later, Stiles was running into Scott’s arms, and Scott was holding him close and murmuring, “It’ll be okay. You can share my mom.”

Six years later, Scott is rousing Stiles and saying, “C’mon. We’re going to Allison’s for lunch.”

Every time he sees Allison Argent, Scott falls in love with her all over again. During what he privately refers to as the Dark Ages, before the three of them got their act together, seeing her caused him physical pain, but now his heart leaps when she waves them inside. She tugs Stiles into a hug and he smiles. Scott receives a kiss on the cheek when she takes the bags of burgers and curly fries from him.

They go up to Allison’s room, and Scott has to chuckle about the fact that somehow a werewolf hunter’s house has become the safest place for a cuddle. Allison gets the both of them laughing at a story about attempting to go clubbing with Lydia which ended with them getting kicked out after they expertly disarmed a guy who was being too handsy.

“It would have been fine,” she finishes, “except that Lydia drew blood with her heel, which I didn’t even think was possible.”

Stiles shakes his head and crams a few more curly fries into his mouth. “The two of you together is a recipe for disaster. At least he wasn’t a creature of the night.”

“Nope. One of them is enough for me.” She scratches Scott’s head and he leans bonelessly against her. They’ve made plenty of dog jokes about this tendency, but Scott really doesn’t care because it feels incredible.

He slumps down and pulls Stiles with him. “We’ve eaten. Time to hibernate now.”

“Wolves don’t hibernate,” Stiles points out, curling into his side.

“Teenagers do,” Scott insists.

“Hear, hear.” Allison has tossed their trash towards her wastebasket and come back to spoon Stiles. She nuzzles her cheek into his short hair, and tucks one arm tight around him.

They fall asleep quickly, but Scott finds that he can’t slip off as easily. He listens to the steady sounds of their breathing and heartbeats. He smells the complicated scents of shampoo, and deodorant, and grass, and sunlight that make up his partners? lovers? Pack. He’s been a werewolf for over two years and he doesn’t really understand it - probably never will - but there are certain instincts that come along with the extra senses and strength, and all of those instincts are telling him that this is right, this is good. He curls one hand around Allison’s head, and the other around Stiles’s hip, and dozes off.

The waning sunlight wakens him a few hours later. Some years, Stiles feels like visiting his mom’s grave, but this year he’s already said that he doesn’t want to. Scott decides that he wants to though, so he untangles his limbs from the knot the three of them have ended up in. Stiles is fast asleep in Allison’s arms, but she makes a noise of protest at the movement. He leans back in and kisses her softly.

“I’ll be back in a while,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”

She nods absently and settles back on the pillow.

He leaves them dozing, and drives to the graveyard. There are hints of spring around, but the trees are still bare, and the sky is gray. Scott follows the familiar path to the grave site.

Spring had come early the year Mrs. Stilinski had died. The dogwood tree right by her grave had been in full bloom at the funeral. It’s bare today; just a few buds hinting at the flowers to come. Someone is standing under the tree.

“Hello Sheriff,” he says softly.

The man nods in acknowledgement.

Scott has never liked it when he’s been on the Sheriff’s bad side. Those times are luckily few and far between, but they’re always unpleasant. The worst trouble he and Stiles ever got into before werewolves had been when they were about eight. They’d been allowed to “wash” then-Deputy Sheriff Stilinski’s patrol vehicle, which really meant messing about with the hose. They’d discovered that, when wet, the slope of the windshield made a perfect slide. The only problem was, windshields weren’t meant to support the weight of two boys. They’d stared in horror at the spiderweb cracks spread across the glass.

“If we pedalled fast,” Stiles had asked speculatively, “do you think we could make it to Mexico before my dad notices?”

“Canada,” Scott had said seriously. “You suck at Spanish.”

They’d been getting their bikes to make their getaway when Stiles’s mom had come out to investigate why it had gotten so quiet. She’d taken in the shattered windshield, their guilty expressions, and the bikes, and then burst into peals of laughter.

Stiles’s dad had been less understanding. As punishment they’d had to pay for the new windshield (which took ages because neither of their allowances were very big), and devote most of weekend to washing all the Beacon Hills police cruisers. Scott had walked on eggshells around Mr. Stilinski for months, sure that at any moment he was going to be arrested and hauled off to prison.

Scott is pretty sure he hasn’t done anything illegal lately, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. This is probably the second angriest the Sheriff has ever been with him.

They stand in silence for a few minutes. Scott spends the first few minutes worrying that he should say something, and then trying to figure out what to say. The quiet stretches and grows, and then tips into something almost comfortable.

Mr. Stilinski breaks the stillness. “She always liked you, Scott. She thought you were good for Stiles - kept him balanced.” He laughs softly. “Like an anchor.”

Scott doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Thought he’d be with you today.”

“We were earlier; he’s with Allison right now.”

“Good. That’s good.” Mr. Stilinski nods vaguely. He sets the flowers he’s been clutching in front of the stone, and brushes his fingers lightly across the top. Then he looks at Scott for the first time. “I’m glad he’s got you two. However it works, I’m glad it does.”

This feels important, like Scott ought to make some sort of gesture. “Thank you sir,” he says, and awkwardly reaches to shake his hand. Mr. Stilinski pulls him into a tight hug, and Scott sort of melts into it.

“C’mon, kiddo,” he says, pulling away, but keeping an arm around Scott. “Call those other delinquents. I’ll grill some ribs for all of us.”


End file.
